That mostly meant being disproportionately amused by its short tenure as living room furniture
and marveling that they're supposed to be white. I think the now-former Woodside commode was older than both my parents.
This is why they call her Sweet Cheeks. Or Eldest Daughter Strangler, when she sees this picture.
Which reminds me: If you do not have a mother who would scoop large vermin into a garden trowel and disgustedly hurl it over your privacy fence, I am very, very sorry. Seriously, if you ever question your mother's love, just ask yourself how close she'd stand to rabies for you. I am eternally grateful. And reluctant to shake her hand.
WOW, I digress.
Well of course you do. It's the moment you reconsidered knowing me.
Apparently, it takes me four years to discover, all I needed was a little something called TSP. A spritz, a scrape, and ...
I'm afraid this means my father is right, and squalor is a choice. I'd always considered myself an unwitting victim.
I shined up the shower walls—I painted this bitch five times and I'm so over it I could never shower again if it didn't mean I'd run off my many admirers—
and the momster primed the floor.
Oh. Huh. I though it was supposed to look like this.
Jesus, people. Why did none of you call the Health Department?
By the end of the long weekend, a new potty was installed, floors painted a lovely gray, and tub and toilet awaited caulking.
It almost looks habitable! We considered polying the floor (despite the threat to my sanity), but my mother took some measure of pity on me, read that the porch and patio paint we'd used was not recommended for "car or truck traffic," and determined that barring a large-animal stampede I was probably in the clear.
Oh dear. That's a face on the verge of stampede if ever I've seen one.